[1] Note. This, of course, all occurred before the Germantown Telegraph was started, or we should refer to the files of that valuable paper for a full report of the proceedings, and thus save ourselves a vast deal of trouble in copying a vile, old, dusty, Dutch manuscript. * * * * * FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN. Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home, Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam! The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze— Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees, And swift as your flight, is the march of Time— Away, away, to a milder clime! Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food, ’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood; And here will ye carol your songs no more, Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er; Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on, And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne. But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers Of the genial South, through these winter hours, Where your golden wings may unfettered rove Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove; Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams, Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams. Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night; He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight: We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair! And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air; But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam, Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home. But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief— From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf; From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath, The ransomed _spirit_ may flee at death, To a clime where perpetual Summer reigns O’er the fadeless flowers of celestial plains. * * * * * THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. II. THE CAPTAIN’S COURTSHIP. The cloth had just been removed, at my second dinner with the club, when the President called on a Mr. Rowley for a story. He tossed off a tumbler of Port—to clear the cobwebs, as he said, from his throat—and began. “You all know I am a lawyer, and that men who would be witty have a way of quizzing our profession by saying that we cannot tell a story without dragging in our craft. I have no objection to the notion of these smart gentlemen, and shall not even trouble myself to refute them, but go on with my story.